


Chance Encounter

by Lindenharp



Series: By Love Possessed [4]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6950632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men walk into a pub...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance Encounter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sasha1600](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha1600/gifts), [uniquepov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniquepov/gifts).



> You'll probably enjoy this story more if you've read the earlier entries in the series. What you need to know: James and Robbie had been lovers for several months when James revealed his submissive desires. That was a few years ago, and they've been in a consensual D/s relationship ever since (mostly bondage). There's only a little D/s in this story, and no sexual activity. The Teen rating is mostly for coarse language and references to sexual activity.
> 
> My thanks to Sasha1600 for beta-reading and to UniquePOV for encouraging me when my Muse was uncooperative.

Tom hears them before he sees them, tucked away as he is in the booth with its high back.

"Thought the guidebook said this was a nice place for a quiet drink?" Northern voice... Geordie with the edges rubbed off.

"It did." Younger man. RP, but educated rather than posh. "Best gay pub in Barchester."

" _ Only _ gay pub in Barchester."

"We could go somewhere else," the younger voice suggests, with a hint of reluctance.

"Nah. We're on holiday, and we're celebrating. I don't want to have to..."

_ Hide? Be careful? Avoid holding your hand? _ The Geordie bloke doesn't finish his sentence. Evidently, he doesn't need to, because his companion says, "I know."

"What's all this? Fancy dress party?"

The younger man must have spotted the flyer on the wall, because he replies, "Last week of June is PrideFest, and tonight is... BDSM Night."

"Bloody hell." The tone is half-startled, half-amused.

"We can still—:

"Nah, it's all right. Look, there's a table. You hold down the fort and I'll get the first round in. An' don't let anyone steal my chair."

"I'll guard it with my life, Sir." It's said lightly, but Tom can hear the capital S in 'Sir'.

Joe gets only a glimpse of the Geordie as he heads for the bar: fifties, dark-haired, solidly-built. He has a clearer view of the other man, who is at least twenty years younger than his partner, Tall, lean, and blond. Fit, but built more like a runner than a weightlifter. He's studying the room and the people carefully.

Most nights, the punters at the Chequers are an unremarkable lot. It's not one of those glitzy London pubs with shirtless bartenders and twenty-somethings in tight clubwear. Tonight, there are a lot of colourful Pride t-shirts to be seen. They make a lively background for the BDSM crowd, who are mostly in black. A few are wearing leather accessories—collars, wristbands, and the like—but only one or two have bothered with full gear, as there's no playing allowed at the Chequers.

"Hello, sweetheart. I haven't seen you here before." Tom curses silently as he watches Brandon Farley seat himself in the vacant chair. He's as dramatic as always, in a black silk poet shirt and sleek leather trousers to match.

The blond looks at him. "Sorry," he says with bland politeness. "That seat's taken."  _ And so am I _ , is clearly written on his face for anyone with half a brain to see. Unfortunately, that leaves out Farley, who relies on good looks and aggressive charm in place of common sense and good manners.

"I''m Master Brand. You're new to the scene, aren't you?" 

"I don't see how that's any of your concern." Still polite, but colder.

"But it  _ is _ my concern. As a Dom, it's my responsibility to help submissives find their place in the community." Farley manages to interpret the blond's stare of incredulity as hesitation. "You deserve someone who will guide you to understanding your true nature. If you were mine, I'd see that you were properly collared so that everyone would know who you belonged to."

"How... magnanimous of you."

Tom winces.  _ This is not going to end well. _ He's got no call to intervene yet. Farley is being an arse once again, breaking several rules of BDSM etiquette, but he hasn't quite stepped over the line into harassment. The blond bloke, who may or may not be new to the scene, isn't young and vulnerable, and he certainly isn't impressed by Farley's shite.

The dark-haired Geordie has returned. He sets two pint glasses on the table in front of his partner. Now that Tom sees the two of them together, it's clear that they  _ are _ partners. "James?" There's no hint of jealousy in the question, only concern.

The blond juts his chin in Farley's direction. "This is 'Master Brand'. He was just about to leave."

Farley reddens. "I thought your appalling lack of manners was on account of being a newbie. Now I see what the problem is." He scowls at the Geordie. "You need to teach your sub some respect."

The Geordie stands his ground, replying calmly, "He respects people who've earned his respect, and I wouldn't change that about him if I could."

"It's obvious that you know nothing about training a sub."

The Geordie sighs, looking weary. "None of this is any of your business. I think it's time you shoved off."

"Listen, old man," Farley growls. He pushes back his chair, and the blond springs to his feet. He's taller than Farley, and his body language says he's ready to respond in kind if Farley tries anything physical.  _ He's had training _ .  _ Not military.  _ The Geordie steps sideways into a position that will let him defend his partner without getting in his way.

_ Time to do a little peace-keeping _ . Tom slides out of his booth, and is standing beside the table before any of the three men has a chance to notice him. "Farley," he says calmly, "why don't you go back to your friends and let these gentlemen drink their pints, yeah?"

"Fuck off, Radford. You've no right to tell me what to do."

"No, I haven't," he agrees mildly. "But Jasper does. And when I tell him you've been picking fights with visitors, you'll be lucky if he only bans you for three months."

Farley tries to stare him down. Christ, Tom thinks, the wanker's posturing would be laughable if it wasn't so bloody annoying. 

"All right, Major Tom." Farley sneers. "I've got better things to do than teach you a lesson."

_ Bollocks _ . Farley has a gym-toned body that probably looks impressive to his partners when he strips. He knows less about fighting than the average kitten. Tom, despite his bad knee, could have him whimpering on the floor in twelve seconds. "Piss off." Farley glowers at him, then stalks away, seeking the comfort of his fan club.

Tom looks at the two visitors. "Sorry you had to deal with that. Farley is a bit of an arse, but he isn't usually so..."

"Stupid?" the blond suggests.

"Yeah. Anyway, I'd hate for you to think poorly of the Chequers just because of one tosser. It's good place and a good crowd."

"Are you the bouncer?" the blond asks.

"Me? Nah. The owner is a friend of mine, so I help out when I can. Jasper's away on some family business, or I would have let him deal with 'Master Brand.'"

"I'm glad you could talk him down," the Geordie says. "That sort is usually more gob than action, but sometimes, with a few pints in them, they'll explode. I'm Robbie and this is my partner, James. Join us for a drink?"

Tom accepts the offer. He introduces himself, then fetches his half-finished pint from the booth where he'd been sitting. "You two on holiday?"

"Yeah," Robbie says. "Celebrating my retirement and his promotion."

Tom raises his glass. "Congratulations. But if you don't mind my asking, why Barchester?"

"Wanted to go someplace we'd never been, and someone—" Robbie looks pointedly at his partner. "—was very keen on literary landmarks."

"Someone else quite liked Castle Courcy, and the Hogglestock Railway Museum," James retorts.

They're fucking adorable, these two. Like an old married couple. Tom chokes back a laugh because they'll think he's mocking them. He's not. Right now his choices are amusement and searing envy.

"We've been having a good time.." Robbie says.

_ Until tonight. _ "Sorry," Tom repeats.

"Not your fault, man. Only I don't see why they put up with an arse like him." Robbie waggles his fingers in the general direction of the BDSM group.

"He can be charming when he wants to be. And he's got an old farmhouse near Greshambury which is fitted out for play parties. Not quite a full dungeon, but better than anything you'll find outside a London club, and lots of privacy." Tom shrugs. "Or so I hear. You may have noticed that I'm not his favourite person."

"So they don't say anything when he accosts random strangers?" James asks.

_ Doesn't he know?  _ "Erm.. not exactly random..."

Both of the visitors look confused. Realisation hits James first. "He heard me call you 'Sir'. Sorry."

Robbie shrugs philosophically. "You're all right." He turns to Tom. "We're out at home, as a couple, I mean, but there are some things we keep private."

They talk about harmless topics. Tom shares a few funny stories about the Chequers. Robbie reminisces about a long-ago visit to Australia (work-related, he says), and James recounts a hilariously disastrous hiking tour of the Pennines. James gets in the next round. He makes his way to the bar and back without incident, but Tom notices Brandon Farley watching him.

The next round is Tom's. To his surprise, he finds himself telling a story from his RAF days in Afghanistan. "--and the Yank says, 'Bud, I'm from Tennessee, and I come from a long line of moonshiners.' And he passes around a bottle. It was piss-awful stuff, but we kept shtum on account of international cooperation. Then the Yank and his mates stagger off, and Lieutenant Jolliffe says, 'well,  _ I'm _ from Cornwall, and I come from a long line of smugglers.' And he pulls a bottle of Remy fucking Martin out of his coat pocket." The two visitors laugh, and Tom grins, remembering.

James replies with a tale of student revelry--something to do with a rowing victory, apparently.

There's a sudden lull in the background noise, and they can hear Farley's acidic tones. "Poseurs... cream puffs... vanilla on the inside." It's a familiar rant, but Tom suspects it has a specific target tonight.

James's face goes curiously blank for just a split second, and then he's smiling and chatting again.

A few minutes later, their glasses are low, and Robbie says casually, "James, d'ye want to get in the next round?" It should be Robbie's shout, though swapping turns is no big deal, especially between partners.

"Here? But you don't—are you sure?" James looks gobsmacked, and Tom reckons there's another conversation going on beneath the one he can hear.

"Very sure, but only if you want." Robbie shrugs. "What happens in Barchester stays in Barchester, right?"

Abruptly, James stands up, and he changes. It's a transformation that Tom has seen before, though not usually in a civilian. He associates that sudden focus with a specialist heading out on a mission. James moves through the crowd with the confident stride of a cat on the hunt.

He speaks briefly with the barman, who pulls three more pints. As James stalks back to the table, he catches the attention of more than one pair of admiring eyes.  "Here you go.." He sets one glass in front of Tom, and a second at his own place. The third pint is still in his right hand as he stands before Robbie. Something silent and electric passes between them. In one fluid motion, James drops to his knees. Eyes fixed on Robbie's, he raises the pint of ale with the solemn intensity of a medieval knight swearing fealty to his lord.

Robbie accepts the glass. He holds it for one brief moment, then sets it down on table. "Thank you, love." He reaches out to caress James's hair, his hand remaining on the golden head just long enough for it to be a clear command:  _ Stay.  _ A single finger trails down the side of his sub's cheek, brushes along the strong curve of the jaw, then tips his face up for a kiss.

Tom feels as though he ought to look away. He's been a spectator or participant at parties where a dozen naked men groped, sucked, and fucked each other with no privacy and no shame. Watching these two—fully clothed and scarcely touching—Tom feels like his namesake, peeping through the curtains at a scene that ought to be private..

After a long moment, Robbie releases James with some subtle look or gesture. The younger man rises gracefully, and returns to his seat. Both men lift their glasses, and toast each other in wordless harmony.

Tom can't resist checking on Farley's reaction. He mutters something about needing the loo. As he stands up, he glances towards the rear of the pub. Farley is staring fixedly in another direction, chatting to one of his friends.  _ He saw them. No doubt about it. And he's going to pretend he didn't. Coward. _

Robbie and James aren't looking at the tosser; Tom suspects that they've forgotten Farley's existence. They smile at each other.  _ Fucking adorable _ , Tom thinks again, and can't hold back a smile of his own.

\--- THE END ---


End file.
